


Plot My Rightful Place

by Demerite



Series: An Unchartered Galaxy [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempts at Cuddling, Biting, Blood, Crying, Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/pseuds/Demerite
Summary: Emperor Philipa Georgiou has a gift for Captain Lorca. That gift is furious, 18-year-old prisoner James T. Kirk.





	Plot My Rightful Place

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Look, I'm not saying I need to write a fic wherein Mirror!Lorca is presented with a newly 18-year-old Mirror!AOS!James Kirk as some form of gift, but seriously, I do.  
> [Aisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari/): YES
> 
> Please read the tags and click through to the end-note for a clarification of the warnings if you're still unsure about whether this fic is for you (but also be aware, the end-note does have spoilers).

It’s really fucking cold. 

 

The stone floor is making Jim’s knees ache as he kneels in the Imperial throne room, but he doesn’t let it show. There’s a dull, throbbing pain radiating from his left cheek, and the blood from his split lip is barely dry; he can taste it when he swallows. His vision is still a little blurry, but at least the ringing in his ears has finally subsided. That escape attempt might not have been the best idea. _No shit,_ the bitter, sarcastic corner of his mind points out. 

 

“What do you think?” The voice is hard, cold, and Jim knows immediately who it belongs to. He’s heard that same voice giving orders over the last hour, even if he hasn’t seen the face of the woman it belongs to, he knows that she’s the Emperor. He’d heard her announced before, preceded by a list of titles and victories longer than Jim can remember. 

 

Footsteps behind him make his spine stiffen, and he has to fight to maintain his bent posture. Even with his gaze fixed firmly downwards, he sees the pair of boots that stop in front of him. Then, a sound that is both familiar and chilling; the low scrape of a blade being drawn. Jim doesn’t dare move, laces the fingers of his bound hands together behind his back and holds himself in near-perfect stillness, waiting for whatever this new arrival has in store for him. 

 

The tip of the sword is cold as it presses into the skin of his throat, forcing him to tip his head up and raise his gaze to meet the eyes of the sword’s apparent owner. He’s dimly aware of the amount of gold the man’s wearing - probably a captain then - before he meets the intense eyes. It’s a physical struggle for him to maintain the eye contact, but he does it; keeps his own gaze level and sets his jaw determinedly. Maybe this guy won’t be interested in someone combative, will want someone who’s ready to just roll over and take it. 

 

The cool, evaluating glance sweeps over him, the man’s face still blank, and Jim lets his lips twitch upwards in a silent snarl. He’s always been told he’s too much trouble, and both his arrest and medical records speak to that, he just has to show it now. 

 

“Well, he’s pretty.” The captain says after a few more moments of consideration. 

 

Jim, despite the situation, fights the urge to roll his eyes. Pretty? He’s been called a lot of things in his eighteen years, but never pretty, and never in such an openly speculative tone, or while being observed with such a predatory gaze. Maybe there are other ways he can turn this situation to his advantage than fighting. 

 

The Emperor’s laugh is low and dangerous. “You always did like the pretty ones, Gabriel.” 

 

Jim is _sure_ that name is familiar, but he can’t place it. 

 

The sword at his throat is used to turn his head, and Jim knows that the captain - Gabriel -is cataloguing his injuries; the bruise blooming across his cheek, the split in his lip, the dried blood. There are more injuries under the rough fabric of Jim’s shirt, he can feel the sharp flare of pain on each indrawn breath that tells him he has at least one broken rib. Funny how getting kicked tends to do that. 

 

“Pity about his face.” Gabriel muses. 

 

“He attacked his guards on the journey here.” The Emperor’s voice is amused, “He has spirit.” Another low, cold laugh, “I’m sure you will enjoy breaking it.” 

 

Jim fights to control the brief flash of fear that shoots through him. Apparently, this Gabriel is a man who likes a challenge. Well, if a fight is what he’s looking for, Jim is more than capable of giving him one. He sets his jaw and glares up at Gabriel, is met with raised eyebrows. 

 

“I will, thank-you, Emperor.” Gabriel says, not breaking the eye-contact. 

 

“You are dismissed, Captain Lorca. Go and enjoy my gift.” 

 

_Captain Lorca._ The pieces fall into place for Jim with a sudden, irrefutable _click_. Everyone in the universe knows Captain Gabriel Lorca, the Emperor’s right hand, one of the most brilliant and ruthless captains in the Empire. And Jim’s just been given to him as a _gift._

 

“With me.” Lorca says, and the sword point is gone from Jim’s throat. 

 

Jim stands, wobbles when his right ankle threatens to give out for a moment, then finds his balance. Lorca jerks his head towards the main doors of the throne room, and Jim starts walking. Lorca clearly doesn’t want Jim anywhere out of his sight. Smart. If Jim were a prominent Imperial captain he wouldn’t turn his back on anyone either, especially not a prisoner. 

 

Outside the throne room, Lorca sheathes his sword. 

 

“You gonna try to run again?” He asks, and Jim shakes his head. He won’t get very far if he tries it, not with his injuries, and in the heart of the Imperial Palace. He’s reckless, not stupid. 

 

“Good.” Lorca puts a hand on Jim’s shoulder, high enough that his fingers press into the base of Jim’s neck. “You have a name?”  


Jim doesn’t even consider not answering or lying. Even if he wanted to try, he suspects he wouldn’t be able to get away with it. 

 

“James Tiberius Kirk.” He says, holding his head up. 

 

Lorca doesn’t seem even slightly impressed. “That’s one hell of a mouthful. You got a nickname?” 

 

“Jim.” Jim mutters a little sullenly. 

 

Lorca makes a considering noise, “Jim it is then.” 

 

He directs Jim down a series of grand hallways, guiding him with the pressure of his fingers digging into Jim’s neck, and then they turn a corner and in front of them is an airlock, flanked by two guards wearing different uniforms to the ones Jim’s grown used to in the palace. The guards salute, and Lorca returns the gesture with his free hand, and the doors open, revealing a ship’s corridor beyond. Jim wonder’s if this is Lorca’s ship as he’s directed down a series of dimly lit corridors and into a turbolift. 

 

Jim desperately wants to ask where they are, what ship they’re on, where they’re going, what Lorca wants from him; but the tightening of the hand at his throat when he draws breath to ask suggests that he’d better keep quiet. 

 

In the silence, Jim takes a moment to actually look at Lorca. His finds his gaze returned by cool blue eyes, but he looks past them to take in the calculating expression that Lorca is fixing him with. And okay, the man might be Jim’s new captor - or owner, depending on how he thinks about it - but Jim isn’t blind; he’s hot, too. Jim takes a moment to silently curse his many, _many_ issues because he knows exactly how much of a bad idea even thinking this way about Lorca is. It can only get him into even more trouble. 

 

Jim fixes his gaze on the wall in front of him and tries to think of something else. Of course, now that he’s thought about it in the first place, he can’t _stop_ thinking about it. His eyes keep flicking across to Lorca, taking in more details, his brain ever-so-helpfully filing them away for later consideration. Or consideration right now, because his traitorous mind can’t help but point out _exactly_ how good the hand squeezing at his throat had felt, and wondering what else Lorca’s hands could be persuaded to do to Jim. 

 

The turbolift doors slide open, and a hand pressed into the small of his back propels him down another corridor, and then sharp left turn into a momentarily blindingly bright room. Jim squints, trying to adjust to the light reflecting off white surfaces after the dim corridor. 

 

Vaguely, he’s aware of Lorca giving orders to someone in a black and silver medic’s uniform, and then he’s being guided to sit on the edge of a biobed, a little clumsily with his hands still bound. The light of a scanner shines blue as it is passed over him, and then the cool metal of a hypo is pressed to the side of his neck. 

 

Jim struggles violently, adrenaline lending him the strength to finally free his hands, and he lashes out, managing to get a hand on the medic’s dagger before the drug coursing through his system overpowers him, and dizzy and weak, he slumps unconscious to the ground. The last thing he’s aware of is Lorca’s face, leaning over him, considering. 

 

* 

 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” 

 

Jim groans, screws up his face against the light. 

 

“Don’t be a child, you’re fine.” The medic scanning him says, “Come on, get up. The Captain wants you.” Strong hands help him to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the biobed. 

 

Jim stands, catalogues what he’s feeling quickly. His ankle and ribs now ache, instead of being agony, and the pain in his head has subsided entirely. There’s still dried blood on his face, and his shirt, and when he runs his tongue over his lower lip he can still feel the split. His hands are also still bound, but in front of him this time, which is a definite improvement. Jim flexes them experimentally, but the bindings, a twisted metallic wire instead of rope, are tighter than before. 

 

“I wouldn’t bother.” The medic says lightly, leading Jim over to the pair of guards by the door, “I tied that myself.” 

 

The guards look Jim up and down. The smaller of the two, a severe redheaded woman, smirks. 

 

“This the captain’s newest?” The other guard, a tall male, asks. 

 

“Yes.” The medic pushes Jim towards them, “He’s expected. Captain’s quarters. Go.” He makes a shooing motion with both hands. 

 

The guards grab Jim by his shoulders and drag him through the corridors. They’re not exactly gentle, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise through the thin shirt as they navigate their way to another turbolift. 

 

“How come Lorca gets all the pretty ones?” The female guard grumbles, eyeing Jim, “Hardly seems fair.” 

 

The male guard makes an acknowledging hum, low and considering, “He _is_ the Captain.” 

 

“Who cares?” The female guard shrugs, “I don’t.” Her hand smoothes over Jim’s head, nails scraping through his hair, scratching on his scalp. 

 

Jim doesn’t move, keeps his gaze fixed on the door in front of him. His heart is pounding adrenaline coursing through him, burning away the last of the lingering fuzziness from the drugs they’d given him in medical. He once more finds himself fighting to keep his reactions under control. He doesn’t have the strength and skill to fight them both at once, not with his hands bound, and in the close quarters of the turbolift. 

 

“Come _on_.” The female guard drags him out of the ‘lift, and Jim stumbles a little, his breath catching. 

 

“What are you-”

 

“Relax, we’ll get you to the captain soon.” She purrs, pulling him towards a darker part of the corridor, a shadowy blind corner that Jim really doesn’t like the look of. 

 

“Here, Saria?” The male guard asks, “Seriously? We’re practically on the Captain’s doorstep.” 

 

“If you don’t like it you can leave, Pax.” Saria snaps back, “But I thought you said you liked risk. Don’t tell me I’ve been wrong about you this whole time.” 

 

“You’re not wrong.” Pax mumbles, glancing around then joining them in the corner, “Better hurry up, before -“ 

 

Pax never gets to finish the sentence. Even as he’s reaching towards to Jim, his chest explodes in an eruption of red around the point of the sword now protruding from it. 

 

“Before the captain finds you?” Lorca suggests, bracing his free hand on Pax’s back as he withdraws the blade, letting the lifeless form drop to the deck. 

 

Saria explodes into movement, one arm coming up around Jim’s throat, the other pressing a dagger into the skin below his jaw. 

 

“Saria.” Lorca says, shaking his head with a humourless laugh, “What can you possibly gain here?” 

 

“I-“ Saria’s words are cut off with a wet, gurgling cough, blood bubbling up between her lips, spilling down her front. 

 

Jim releases his grip on Pax’s dagger where just a moment ago, he had slid it between Saria’s ribs; and her body joins Pax’s on the decking at his feet. 

 

“Nothing.” Jim says, looking down at his bloodied hands and then up at Lorca, who is regarding him with open curiosity. 

 

“Well, I’m impressed.” Lorca says, wiping the blade of his sword on Pax’s tunic to at least partially clean it of blood, “I wasn’t expecting murder so early on.” 

 

Jim draws himself up, “Not my fault your crew doesn’t have manners.” He snaps back. 

 

“No.” Lorca muses. His gaze runs over Jim, almost like a physical touch. “This way.” 

 

Jim steps over the bodies and takes up a position on Lorca’s left, walking alongside him down the corridor. He looks Lorca up and down, noting that he’s in uniform, but not armour. Jim has to admit, the man looks _damn good_ in all black. 

 

They don’t have far to go before they come to a door, flanked by two guards, both of whom salute and then step aside to allow them access. 

 

The rooms inside are as dimly lit as the corridors, but Jim can easily make out that they’re living quarters, sparsely decorated, but comfortable. 

 

Lorca waits just inside the door until it’s closed again, then leads Jim through a sleeping area and into a bathroom. 

 

“If I untie you, are you gonna do something stupid?” Lorca asks him, and Jim shakes his head no. Lorca has already proven that at least for the moment, he’s invested in Jim’s continued survival, he might be the only ally Jim can get here, at least for now. A small part of him points out that he’s just making excuses for his attraction to Lorca. God, he has so many _issues._

 

Lorca unties the bindings around Jim’s wrists in quick, efficient movements, but then he takes Jim’s hands in his, turning them over like he’s checking them for any damage. Jim lets him, doesn’t pull away, even though he feels like he probably could if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to, though. 

 

“You’re filthy. Get cleaned up.” Lorca nudges Jim in the direction of the shower, but makes no move to leave the room. 

 

Choosing not to comment on Lorca’s choice of descriptor, Jim shrugs inwardly. It’s not as if he’s bothered by it, and if Lorca wants a show, Jim is more than happy to give him one. 

 

He strips off his shirt in an easy, fluid motion, leaving it in a filthy, bloodstained heap on the floor. The rest of his clothes follow quickly, and glad to be rid of them, Jim raises his arms above his head, stretching, showing off the long line and defined muscles of his back, but also feeling the low ache of the last few days of captivity all the way down to his bones. He glances back over his shoulder, sees Lorca leaning on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, watching him with that steady, heat-filled gaze. Jim shoots him a hint of a grin, he _knows_ he looks good. Lorca rolls his eyes, and Jim grins wider, turning back to the shower. 

 

Stepping under the warm water, Jim lets out a sound that he _knows_ is borderline obscene. After days in a cramped, freezing cell, the warmth feels so fucking good. For a moment, he lets his eyes drift shut and just enjoys it. 

 

He’s absorbed entirely by the delightful water pressure, so the arms that wrap around his waist come as a surprise. Jim flinches, muscles tensing for a brief second, then relaxing back against the body behind him, keeping his eyes closed to better enjoy the sensations. He should know better than to let his guard down like that, especially here. 

 

“That doesn’t look like getting clean.” Lorca’s voice is close enough that Jim can feel the movement of the air, the puff of an exhale on the half-laugh that accompanies the statement. “You just gonna stand there?” 

 

“Yes.” Jim announces, opening his eyes to give Lorca an appraising glance over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to look far, and they almost bump noses. Jim smirks, “Why? You gonna help?” He lets his gaze drop from Lorca’s eyes to his mouth, and then back up again, runs the tip of his tongue over the split in his lip for good measure, watches Lorca’s eyes track the movement. 

 

“You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?” 

 

“Is that really what you want?” Jim challenges, “Because I thought you liked a challenge, _Captain_.”The last word is just a little mocking, and Jim knows that he’s playing with fire, but he’s never let that stop him before. 

 

“You’re impossible.” Lorca mutters darkly, but there’s amusement there too. 

 

“Yeah.” Jim says, arching his back so that Lorca’s erection brushes against the curve of his ass. “But I don’t think you’re all that bothered.” 

 

“I’m not.” Lorca murmurs, the grip he has on Jim’s hips tightening, “You were right about me; I do love a challenge.” The words are all but growled, hot and low, and Lorca follows them with a sharp bite to Jim’s earlobe that makes Jim gasp and throw his head back onto Lorca’s shoulder and grind his ass back against Lorca’s hard cock. 

 

“Fuck.” Jim manages when a hand slick with…something, shampoo maybe, wraps around his erection, and he’s rewarded with a low chuckle and another bite, this time to the skin of his neck. 

 

“Are you… _marking me_?” Jim manages when Lorca doesn’t let up after a few seconds, “Holy shit, you are, _fuck_.” 

 

“Just making sure you know who you belong to.” Lorca tells him, biting and sucking a dark bruise into the pale skin of Jim’s throat. 

 

_Holy shit_ , Jim’s brain ever-so-eloquently supplies once more. Lorca isn’t just marking him, which would be hot enough on its own, but he’s _claiming_ Jim too. 

 

“That’s unbelievably hot.” Jim gets out between desperate gasping breaths. 

 

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Lorca grumbles against Jim’s neck, the hand stroking Jim’s cock squeezing tighter.

 

“Why? If I say no, will you make me?” Jim challenges. He really, _really_ hopes Lorca tries to make him, that will be fun for everyone involved.

 

“Impossible.” Lorca repeats, and then the hand is gone from Jim’s cock. Jim lets out a pitiful-sounding whine, reaches down to replace Lorca’s hand with one of his own only to have Lorca grab his wrist and hold him back. Lorca’s other hand moves from Jim’s hipbone to his shoulder, and he uses it to turn Jim around until they’re facing each other under the rushing water. 

 

Jim considers trying for a kiss, because fuck, he loves kissing almost as much as he loves the other things he can do with his mouth, but before he can make a move both of Lorca’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing Jim down to his knees on the tiles. 

 

Fuck yes, Jim manages to think, before he’s distracted by Lorca’s cock, inches from his face. And there’s plenty of it to be distracted by. God, Jim _really_ hopes that’s going in his mouth, leans forward to let the tip rest against his lips, lets his tongue slip out to taste the fluid beading there. 

 

A hand tangles in his hair, tugging his head forward, and Jim goes gladly, letting out a small, contented sigh as the head of Lorca’s cock pushes into his mouth. He sucks lightly, getting the feel for it, lets Lorca pull him down further. 

 

Jim fucking _loves_ this. Loves the feel of having a cock in his mouth, of barely being able to swallow, the ache in his jaw, being so entirely at another’s mercy and yet having them at his. 

 

Lorca’s thrusts start slow, not tentative at all, but enough that Jim can get used to it without choking. Which Jim appreciates, but he doesn’t need it. He’s been doing this long enough to know what he’s doing, and to know that he’s good at it. 

 

Jim looks up, catches Lorca’s eye with his, and winks, hugely and deliberately, before taking a quick breath, sinking down, relishing the heavy press of Lorca’s cock into the back of his throat. The hand in his hair tightens, but doesn’t pull him away, so Jim concentrates on moving forward and not choking until his nose is pressed against the dark hair at the base of Lorca’s cock. He glances up to see Lorca has his eyes squeezed shut, the hand not in Jim’s hair braced against the wall of the shower, the forward lean of his body blocking the flow of the water, and caging Jim in against the tiles. 

 

Jim swallows, feeling his throat flutter and constrict around Lorca’s cock, and the resulting jerk of Lorca’s hips makes Jim gag and pull away, just long enough to draw a hurried breath before the hand in his hair is pulling him back down. 

 

“Fuck.” Lorca mumbles, and Jim takes it as a compliment, works to relax his throat. Lorca’s thrusts are harder than before, and after only a few, Jim pulls away again, coughing, drawing in quick, desperate breaths, his throat already starting to feel raw. Impatient, Lorca yanks Jim back onto his cock by his hair, and Jim feels it when the split in his lip reopens, can taste the coppery blood mixed with the bitterness of precome every time he swallows. 

 

They continue this way for what could be minutes, or could be hours, Jim loses all perception of time, focused entirely on going where Lorca pulls him, caught between the sharp pain of the hand pulling his hair and the rapid, almost brutal thrusts into his throat; concentrates on not choking again, and on drawing in short, gasping breaths whenever he’s given the chance. His own cock is hard, aching and neglected between his legs, Jim needing all of his attention to take Lorca’s cock and not choke, or bite, which he’s sure wouldn’t be appreciated. 

 

Lost in the sensations and in remembering to breathe, it takes Jim a moment to realise that Lorca’s talking, voice a low rumble below their heavy breathing and the rushing of the shower. 

 

“Fuck, you look good down there, knew you would, been wanting to do this since I saw you on your knees in the throne room, kneeling for me like you belonged there, like you -“

 

Lorca cuts himself off with a ragged gasp as Jim swallows hard, tensing his throat, and then Lorca’s pulling out, his right hand letting go of Jim’s head to work his cock in quick strokes, and then he’s coming, streaks of white painting Jim’s face, and Jim barely has time to close his eyes before he feels Lorca’s come hitting his cheek, trickling slowly down towards his mouth until it’s close enough for him to poke out the tip of his tongue and taste it. 

 

Lorca tilts Jim’s face up, and Jim lets his eyes open, blinking away the water droplets, and grins up at him, all slow and lazy. Jim doesn’t know exactly how he looks, but he can imagine easily enough, can feel the blood from his lip on his chin, and can taste it, knows his teeth are probably red with it. His lips are swollen and he can fell the come dripping down his face. In short, he knows he looks filthy and abused and claimed. 

 

‘You were saying?” Jim manages, and his voice comes out hoarse and rough. His throat feels scraped raw and his jaw aches. He’s still desperately hard, the sensation bordering on pain from how long he’s had to wait. 

 

“Get up here.” Lorca growls, and Jim clambers, a little awkwardly, to his feet, only to be shoved back against the wall of the shower, tries to gasp out a curse but it gets lost somewhere when Lorca slides a leg between Jim’s and Jim finally - _finally!_ \- grinds down against it; so what comes out instead in a strangled whimper. 

 

“Look at you,” Lorca murmurs, in between sucking and biting more bruises onto Jim’s throat, “So desperate.” 

 

Jim can’t keep the sounds he’s making hidden, the sharp breaths mixed with groans and whimpers and half-formed words as he ruts shamelessly against Lorca’s thigh. It feels good, but it’s _not enough_. He wraps his arms around Lorca’s neck, digs his nails into muscular shoulders in an attempt to get him to do something, _anything._

 

The sound Jim makes when Lorca gets a hand on his cock is nothing short of a sob. The angle is all wrong, but it’s still somehow enough, and Jim comes with a shout that subsides into shuddering and gasping as he shakes out his orgasm, trapped between Lorca and the wall, the thigh between his legs the only thing preventing his exhausted muscles from giving out and dumping him on the floor. 

 

When Lorca goes to pull away, Jim sways and grabs frantically for him. Lorca gets the message easily enough, wraps an arm around Jim’s waist and tugs him against his side, and Jim leans heavily against him under the water. 

 

“Really wore you out, huh?” Lorca says, and all Jim can manage is a low grumbling noise that is supposed to be a complaint that if Lorca wants to spend three days in an Imperial cell, make a failed escape attempt, kneel in the throne room for two hours , get drugged into unconsciousness by the medical staff, stab someone for getting a too friendly with him, and _then_ have shower sex and still remain upright, he’s more than welcome too, but until then he can’t pass judgement. He’s exhausted though, so it just comes out as an irritated grumble. 

 

Despite his earlier roughness,Lorca is almost gentle as he helps Jim rinse away the blood and come under the warm water. Jim feels hazy and detached, like he’s floating outside of himself, like the body leaning against Lorca’s side in the shower belongs to someone else, can’t possibly be his. 

 

The water being shut off and the cool of the room creeping up around him drags him back to himself with a muted, plaintive groan. 

 

“Come on.” Lorca guides him, still impossibly gently, out of the shower, and wraps a huge towel around Jim’s shoulders, “Let get you dry.” 

 

Jim does his best to help, leaning up against the bathroom counter, his movements made clumsy by exhaustion. Lorca seems mostly amused by his attempts, but he tolerates them, only really stepping in to help when Jim nearly topples sideways while trying to rub the towel over his hair. 

 

“Hey!” Jim protests when Lorca scoops him up in his arms, lifting him easily off his feet, “Put me down! He swats ineffectually at Lorca’s chest, but the older man takes no notice, carrying Jim out of the bathroom as if he barely weighs anything. And Jim knows he’s always been a little on the skinny side, especially these last few years, but he’s got muscle too, knows exactly how strong Lorca has to be to carry him with such apparent ease. 

 

Lorca carries him all the way to the bed and sits him on the edge of it, where Jim manages to hold himself upright. He’s suddenly very aware of how naked he is; it leaves him feeling vulnerable and exposed in a way he hadn’t noticed in the close quarters of the bathroom. And, well, his mind had been on other things then. Even as Jim’s opening his mouth to say something about this, Lorca is passing him something black and folded, which turns out to be soft black sleep pants and a t-shirt. No underwear though. 

 

Jim has to lean on Lorca to get the pants on, and he gives up on attempting the shirt when he realises that his whole world has started to blur. Lorca pushes him back against the mattress, and Jim goes, can’t help but let out a low groan the moment he lays down. Lying on something comfortable for the first time in days is _heaven._

 

“Get some sleep.” Lorca tells him, in a tone that is clearly very used to being obeyed. He pulls the blankets up around Jim, who watches him with wary eyes, his exhaustion and mistrust at war with one another. 

 

Exhaustion wins out in the end, and Jim’s eyes drift closed almost of their own accord.Once more, the last thing he’s aware of is Lorca, a little way off, watching him. 

 

* 

 

When Jim wakes, Lorca is standing facing away from him, staring out into space. They’re still at warp, and Jim bites down on the urge to ask where they’re going. It’s not as if Lorca will tell him. 

 

“You hungry?” Lorca asks without turning around. 

 

Belatedly, Jim notices the meal laid out on the table at the other end of the room, and his stomach growls. Lorca waves him towards the table, moving to sit opposite him. Jim eyes the food in front of him suspiciously. Poison isn’t exactly rare. 

 

Lorca sees him looking, and actually rolls his eyes, “Relax.” He says, “It’s replicated. You really think I’d trust someone to cook for me?”   
  
Jim is still doubtful. Replicators can be reprogrammed, he knows from experience, and that doesn’t rule out Lorca attempting to poison him himself, after all, not an hour ago Jim had killed one of his security officers.

 

“It’s not poisoned.” Lorca says, and Jim is sure that he can hear frustration warring with amusement in his voice. 

 

“See?” Lorca takes a bite, chews, swallows, “I’m still alive.” 

 

Its Jim’s turn to roll his eyes, “You could have taken an antidote.” he points out. 

 

“Why would I wanna kill you?” Lorca asks. 

 

“I killed that guard.”  


“Anyone dumb enough to get themselves killed by a prisoner deserves it.” Lorca tells him firmly. “So really? You were doing me a favour.” 

 

Jim bristles at the implicit insult to his abilities. “Maybe I’m just really good at killing, had you considered that?” He suggests, “No, you hadn’t. Because you don’t know anything about me.” 

 

“You’re right, I don’t.” Lorca fixes him with that arresting gaze once more, “And I don’t care. I don’t care about who you were before, or where you’re from, or what you’ve done. Because now? You belong to me, and that’s all that’s important. Do you understand?” 

 

“Yes.” Jim mumbles, a little sullenly, fingers rising to brush against the bruises on his throat. It’s not like he can forget it. 

 

“Good.” Lorca nods, “Now eat, I’m sure you’re hungry.” 

 

With one last suspicious look, Jim eats. Replicated or not, the food is delicious, especially after his days of minimal rations during his time in captivity. 

 

About halfway through the meal, the comm chimes, and a female voice requests Lorca’s presence on the bridge. 

 

“Don’t go anywhere.” Lorca tells Jim firmly on his way out the door. 

  
“Where would I go?” Jim wonders to the empty room.

 

He finishes eating in silence, wonders if he can get away with taking some of the leftover food for later, just in case, but he doesn’t have anywhere to hide it yet. 

 

With nothing else left to do, Jim goes to explore. 

 

Lorca’s quarters, as he noticed before, aren’t as elaborately decorated as Jim might have imagined the private rooms of an Imperial captain to be. The furnishings are simple and practical, but beyond that not particularly noteworthy. The decor interests Jim for a short while; everything nonessential appears to be a weapon of some kind. Jim recognises some of them, the Klingon _bat’leth_ among them, but there are many more that he can’t even begin to understand. He reaches out to run his fingers along the hilt of a strange, twisted blade, but before he can make contact, his hand bounces off a forcefield. 

 

Of course. He doesn’t know why he expected anything else. Surrounding yourself with weapons is a great way for someone else to use them on you if you’re not smart about it. 

 

Jim paces out the borders of the rooms for a while, getting himself used to the space, the layout, the placement of the furniture. When he can confidently navigate the room with his eyes closed, and his steps are starting to become unsteady with exhaustion, he flops down onto the couch and stares out the window. He wonders yet again where they’re going. An idea strikes him. 

 

“Computer, where are we?” He asks the empty room. 

 

_“You do not have clearance to access that information.”_ The response is immediate and predictable. 

 

“What is the name of this ship?” He tries. 

 

_“You do not have clearance to access that information.”_

 

“Okay, okay, what is the current Stardate?” 

 

_“You do not have-”_

 

Jim’s frustrated groan drowns out the rest of the computer’s response, and he flops backwards on the couch, staring up at the ceiling above him. He’s about as safe as he’s going to get, even if he is a prisoner. He rolls onto his side, glaring petulantly out at the stars, and wonders what his future holds.

 

Unconsciously, he raises his hand to press his fingertips against the dark bruise on his neck again, where Lorca had bitten him, had growled out his claim on Jim. That sort of answers the question for him, ultimately. 

 

*

 

The walk back to his cabin seems to take twice as long as it usually does. It seems that there’s someone wanting his attention for something that just can’t wait a _moment_ longer around every corner. He deals with the first few, and then growls at the rest of them to take their concerns to Landry. She’ll know how to deal with them, and anything that actually _does_ need him, she’ll comm him about. 

 

Lorca’s pleased to note that the bodies in the blind corner near his quarters have been cleaned up as per his earlier order. At least someone around here knows how to do their damn job. 

 

The guards on his door salute, and he returns it without having to think about it. 

 

“He try anything?” He asks them. 

 

“No Sir.” The younger of the two guards, Lorca’s pretty sure he’s called Morin, says. 

 

“Argued with the computer for a bit.” The other guard, Stevens, shrugs, “Been quiet for a while now.” 

 

Lorca nods and keys open the door. Inside his quarters it’s near silent, the only sound present above the hum of the engines at warp is slow, deep breathing, even and regular, apart from the way it had caught and stopped, just for a moment when he’d opened the door, before resuming. When he glances around the room, he finds Jim easily. The boy is curled up on the sofa, asleep. Or, more accurately, faking sleep. Pretty damn well, too. Waiting to see what Lorca does, no doubt. 

 

Well, two can play at that game. If Jim’s looking for someone to trust, Lorca can take advantage of that and give him someone. 

 

There’s an extra blanket thrown over the end of the bed, and Lorca crosses the room to collect it. The entire time, Jim’s breathing doesn’t change, staying deep and even. It doesn’t shift when Lorca drapes the blanket over Jim’s relaxed form, or as he smoothes the fabric into place with entirely more contact than is necessary. 

 

A few strands of light hair have fallen over Jim’s face, and Lorca doesn’t even think about it before he reaches out to brush it back into place with a touch that can _only_ be described as gentle. It’s almost a caress, and the way he trails his fingers down the side of Jim’s face definitely is. 

 

Son of a bitch, he’s good. Lorca is impressed; if he hadn’t known Jim has been faking since he opened the door he would have believed he actually was asleep. 

 

 

*

 

Jim’s been faking sleep since the door opened. He’s good at it, has years of practice of waking instantly and silently at the slightest noise, of feigning sleep until the presence in the bedroom doorway is satisfied and leaves again. It’s a talent that served him well then, and continues to do so now. 

 

He hears Lorca moving around; across the room towards the bed, and for a moment Jim thinks Lorca is just going to go to bed and ignore him, but then footsteps approach, and Jim is suddenly enveloped in the soft, warm weight of a blanket. Lorca tucks it around him, smoothing the fabric down over him, and it takes every ounce of Jim’s self-control not to just lean shamelessly into the contact. But he wants to see how far Lorca will go if he thinks Jim asleep still. 

 

The hand that brushes a few strands of hair from Jim’s face is gentle. Jim fights to control his need to press into the touch again, manages to hold himself in stillness, keep his breathing tightly controlled. The touch lingers for a moment, and Jim tells himself that it isn’t a caress, that _can’t_ be what it is, but he’s struggling to find another explanation. 

 

Then the touch is gone, just as he was becoming accustomed to it. Only considerable practice keeps Jim for letting out a disappointed whine at the loss of contact. He hears what might be a faint sigh, might just be an exhale, and then Lorca is moving again, away from the couch and back towards the bed. 

 

Jim keeps his eyes closed, listens to the shifting and rustling sounds of clothing being removed. 

 

“You gonna lie there pretending to sleep all night?” Lorca growls, and Jim freezes. 

 

Shit. Fuck. He knows. _Always were too smart for your own good, Jimmy,_ a mocking voice echoes in the back of his head. Jim pushes it away, and it's less of a struggle than he thought it would be, and opens his eyes, blinking lazily in the low light. 

 

Across the room, Lorca is watching him from the bed, sprawled easily back against the pillows, looking at Jim with amusement and open desire. He’s completely, gloriously naked. 

 

Jim stretches, letting his shirt ride up to expose a strip of taut stomach, watching through his eyelashes as Lorca’s eyes track the movement. 

 

“Come here.” The words are a low growl, the tone unmistakably ‘order’ rather than ‘request’. 

 

Jim stands, and moves slowly across the room, footsteps unhurried and deliberate; fast enough that he’s still obeying the order, but slow enough that he’s got Lorca’s attention well and truly fixed on him by the time he reaches the bed. The hungry gaze sweeps over him again, and Jim does his best not to squirm under the attention. Lorca is touching himself, one lube-slick hand moving languidly on his hard cock, and Jim longs to lean in and take over, or to get his mouth back on it, despite the ache in his jaw and the rawness of his throat. He could take it again and love every moment of it. 

 

“I can’t fuck you with your clothes on.” Lorca says, like it should be obvious that’s what he’s been planning from the start, “Get undressed or I’ll cut them off you.” 

 

It takes Jim’s brain a moment to catch up, and when it does he yanks the soft shirt off over his head in a barely-controlled movement, throwing it away from him without giving a damn where it ends up. His pants go the same way, kicked aside seconds after the shirt.

 

“Up here.” Lorca’s voice is calm, remarkably so, given his aroused state, and he gestures to the empty space on the bed next to him. Jim, once more, scrabbles to comply. 

 

He sprawls next to Lorca, unsure if he’s allowed to touch without permission, but itching to get his hands on skin, and soon. 

 

“Turn over.” Lorca tells him, “On your knees, hands on the headboard. _No touching.”_

 

Jim complies, finds that the position leaves him bent forward, hands gripping the wooden headboard, ass blatantly on display. It should make him feel exposed, but instead he arches his back, once more showing off. 

 

Lorca slaps him on the ass, hard, with one bare hand. Jim can’t suppress the moan, or the way his hips jerk and stutter, his rapidly filling cock searching for friction. 

 

“You liked that, huh?” There’s dark amusement in Lorca’s tone, and when Jim twists to glare at him, he gets those damn raised eyebrows again. 

 

“What the fuck do you think?” Jim snarls back, “You gonna do it again or not?” 

 

“Not tonight.” Lorca reaches across to the low shelf beside the bed for something, “Sometime soon I’ll spank that lovely ass raw, but tonight I have other plans for you.” 

 

“Like what?” Jim immediately demands, and he knows he’s pushing it, but he sort of wants to see how far he can push it, wants to know how much of his bullshit Lorca is willing to take. 

 

“Do you ever shut up?” Lorca grumbles. 

 

“You gonna make me?” Jim isn’t even _remotely_ in doubt of Lorca’s ability to shut him up if need be. 

 

“Yes.” In the quiet, charged atmosphere of the room, the click of the lube being opened might as well be a thunderclap. Jim’s senses are alight, desperate for anything, any sound or sensation they can pick up. “I’m assuming you’ve been fucked before.” Lorca says, not making it a question. 

 

“Yes,” Jim grits out, “I have. _Hurry up._ ” He adds, because he can’t help himself. 

 

“I’m tempted to make you wait.” Lorca says speculatively, tossing the lube away from him, letting it land with a muffled thump on the bed somewhere. There’s a slight hitch in his breathing as he says it though, and Jim knows that he won’t. 

 

“But not tonight.” Lorca decides aloud, “Tonight I’m gonna make sure you remember whose you are, and _if_ you’re good, I’ll let you come. Understand?” 

 

“Yes.” Jim mutters mutinously. Surely after all he’s seen and heard Lorca doesn’t just expect him to lie there and submit. 

 

The hand that twists in his hair and yanks his head back clearly suggests that’s exactly what Lorca expects from him. 

 

“Yes, what?” The words are snarled in his ear, suddenly vicious and dangerous. 

 

“Ow!” Jim protests, “Fuck you.” He snarls right back. The hand in his hair yanks again, any hint of eroticism gone from the gesture, now solely about causing him pain. 

 

“Yes. What?” Lorca repeats, and he leans forward, chest pressed to Jim’s back, and bites down _hard_ on one of the dark bruises on Jim’s throat. “I won’t ask again.” 

 

“Fuck.” Jim gasps out, and at another bite, he gives in. “Yes, _Sir_.” He manages. 

 

The hand in his hair is gone immediately, so fast that it’s only Jim’s grip on the headboard that keeps him from collapsing forwards. 

 

“Good boy.” A hand smoothes over his hip, almost gentle for a moment, then short nails dig sharply into Jim’s skin, making him hiss and swear at the pain.  


Jim bites back his initial response, which is to tell Lorca to just shut up and fuck him already, says nothing, and Lorca seems satisfied by his silence - or at least by his lack of objections - because a thick finger, slick with lube presses against his hole, a pressure that morphs into a stretch that burns at it presses into him. 

 

Jim groans aloud, his body’s reactions fighting either to pull away from the pain or to press into the sensation. He holds himself as still as he can while one finger, then two, then three stretch and prepare him, holds himself still until he’s shaking with the need to push back against the fingers inside him. 

 

Jim can’t stop the needy-sounding whimper that slips out out when Lorca withdraws his fingers entirely, can’t stop the way his hole twitches, achingly empty, or the way his hips jerk back, seeking out the sensation of being filled once more. 

 

The sound the movement earn him a low, appreciative chuckle from Lorca. 

 

“Just can’t help yourself, can you?” Lorca asks, “Haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re desperate for it.” 

 

Jim bites back his immediate urge to backtalk, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to help himself keep quiet, and only realises what a bad idea that is when he feels the sharp flare of pain and tastes blood again. _God-fucking-damnit._

 

“I expect a response when I speak to you.” Lorca’s voice is firm, not giving Jim the option of disagreeing with him. 

 

“Yes, sir.” Jim mumbles, mostly under his breath. 

 

“Brat.” Lorca grumbles back, an undercurrent of amusement colouring his words, and his fingers dig into Jim’s hip, nails leaving marks, half-moon indentations that hurt enough that Jim’s sure he’s got more bruises coming up there too. 

 

Jim opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get the words out they’re lost in a rough cry as Lorca shoves into him in one long, slow, seemingly unending thrust, pushing him forwards against his grip on the headboard. 

 

It _hurts_ , Lorca’s perfunctory preparation nowhere near enough to ease the stretch, and Jim lets out a rough sound that borders on a sob, fighting to keep his breathing even. He holds himself as still as he can, trying to combat the way he’s shaking, wills his body to adjust. If he just waits a little longer, the pain will be replaced with pleasure, he’s sure. 

 

Lorca, however, doesn’t seem interested in whether Jim’s comfortable or not, because all too soon he starts to _move_ , hard, deep thrusts that push Jim forwards up the bed until he starts to shove back to meet them, more out of fear of going face-first into the wall than out of desire for more. 

 

It still hurts. It still really fucking hurts, but underneath the pain, Jim is starting to adjust, if slowly. He grits his teeth and tries to breathe through it. His breath comes in rough, desperate gasps, and when Lorca gets a hand in Jim’s hair, tugs hard enough that Jim arches his back, and Lorca’s cock presses over his prostate on each thrust, the gasps spill over into ragged sobs. Jim tries to stop the tears from falling, but they spill down his cheeks despite his efforts. 

 

It’s too much, too much sensation, pain and pleasure and overwhelming fullness where he’s stretched around Lorca’s cock, so impossibly full. 

 

Lorca slows his thrusts, releases his grip on Jim’s hair, smoothing along his side almost gently. His arms wrap around Jim’s waist, pulling him back until he’s upright, back pressed against Lorca’s chest, body still shaking with the force of his sobs. Lorca doesn’t say anything, just holds him there, the occasional twitch of his hips sending sparks of pleasure and bright flares of pain through Jim, whose breathing slowly evens out, sobs gradually calming. 

 

He’s still not totally adjusted to the sensation of being so thoroughly filled, but it’s getting easier to bear. The angle doesn’t help though, gravity pulling him down to take Lorca’s cock still deeper, and when he tries to squirm away from it Lorca grabs his hips and holds him in place, grinding up into him in shallow, almost lazy movements that make Jim gasp and sob all over again. 

 

“Thought you said you were gonna be a challenge.” Lorca rumbles in his ear, the words sending a curl of heat through him despite himself. “I don’t like being disappointed.” He adds, with another, harder thrust, and Jim _moans,_ caught somewhere between desperate need and pain. 

 

“Fuck you.” He manages, gets a low laugh in return and then Lorca pulls out, shoves him down into the mattress with one hand on the small of his back, holds him there when Jim’s first instinct is to get back up again. Jim knows he probably shouldn’t enjoy the sensation of being held down quite so much, but that’s an issue for another time. Or possibly never. 

 

For all having Lorca’s cock inside of him had hurt, Jim already hates how empty he feels without it, how much he wants it back. He whines desperately, gets another hard slap across the ass for his trouble, can’t help but let out a ragged gasp and grind down against the sheets. 

 

“I tell you to do that?” The words are very calm, and all the more frightening because of it, and Jim stills immediately. “Didn’t think so.” He’s dragged back, up onto his knees, supporting the rest of his weight on his forearms, and he lets himself be moved. “You don’t get to move without permission.” Lorca growls, blunt head of his cock pressing against Jim’s hole, “You don’t get to touch without permission.” He pushes in, all slow and steady and deliberate, and Jim sobs anew, “You don’t get to _come_ without permission.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Jim manages to get out, breathless and pained between gritted teeth. 

 

“Good.” 

 

Jim shudders at the praise, tries and fails to hide his instinctive reaction, but it’s too late. It’s too late for a lot of things; too late to protest, or to leave, or to run. Jim finds he doesn’t want to do any of those things, and even if he did, he doesn’t feel like he’d be able to get away with them. The bites and bruises that litter his neck, throat, and shoulders already speak of how possessive Lorca is, Jim can’t imagine Lorca’s gonna just give him up anytime soon. 

 

Lorca doesn’t warn him, just starts to move again, setting up a punishing rhythm that drives Jim’s breath from him in short, sharp gasps, pushes him down into the mattress until it’s all he can do to lie there and take it, chest pressed against the sheets, ass shamelessly on display, remembering Lorca’s order to stay still and trying his hardest to follow it. He hears all too clearly Lorca’s threat about not letting him come unless he behaves; he’s already desperate for release and he fully trusts that Lorca will make good on his promise if need be. 

 

It should be too much, it should be more pain than pleasure, there’s no gentleness to this, just Lorca taking what he wants and Jim doing his best to follow orders but even with all that, Jim’s starting to like it. Lorca’s thrusts are hard and fast, brutally so, but when Jim tilts his hips, arches his back, the angle shifts and then Lorca’s cock is hitting his prostate again, sending sparks of pleasure through Jim with every thrust. 

 

It’s enough to make him moan and swear and start pushing back into the sensation, Lorca’s orders be damned because it just feels _so good._ He’s willing to take pretty much any punishment Lorca could possibly dream up if he gets to feel this for just a little bit longer. 

 

“Fuck.” Lorca growls, grip on Jim’s hips near-bruising, thrusts never slowing, “Look at you, so good for me, fucking yourself on my cock like you were made for it…” his words trail off into a rough groan, one hand vanishing from Jim’s hip and Jim all but sobs when that same hand, wet with lube, wraps tight around his cock, stroking in time with Lorca’s thrusts. “That’s it,” Lorca's voice is low, “Fall apart for me, just let go, know you’re gonna look so good when you come…” 

 

And that’s all the permission Jim needs, the words, coupled with the dual sensations of Lorca’s hand and cock are enough to drive him over the edge with a desperate, broken cry, and he’s coming, body shaking with it until he’s barely aware of what’s happening around him anymore, his senses narrowed to the hand on his cock and Lorca still fucking into him, thrusts going deep and erratic as the older man comes, growling out his claim on Jim even through the last few shuddering thrusts. 

 

*

 

Jim comes down slowly, and then all at once, reality and pain slamming back into his awareness with enough force to make him curl in on himself and fight not to just burst into tears. _What the fuck?_ He’s eighteen fucking years old, he’s been through a hell of a lot worse than this. At least this had felt good for most of it, and he’s more excited for any potential repeats than afraid. 

 

Lorca seems to have some sixth sense that Jim’s not alright because he drapes one arm over Jim’s waist and mumbles “You okay?” into the back of his neck and sounds almost concerned. 

 

“That fucking _hurt._ ” Jim snarls back, going straight for defence. “Obviously.” 

 

Silence. Then, “You lied to me.” Lorca’s voice is very calm, and that starts alarms sounding in the coherent parts of Jim’s mind. 

 

He clenches his teeth and remains silent. 

 

“Didn’t you?” The words are punctuated with a hard bite, and Jim swears again, twisting, trying to pull away from, and push into, the sensation all at once. 

 

“Tell me the truth this time.” Lorca’s voice drops to a low growl, heavy with threat and promise, “Have you been fucked before tonight, Jim?” 

 

“Yes.” Jim growls right back. 

 

_“Liar.”_

 

“Fuck you.” Jim’s response is defensive, furious and instinctual because Lorca’s technically right. Jim’s spent plenty of time of his knees for other people, and has had plenty of people on _their_ knees for _him,_ is used to his own fingers, and even toys, but he’s never had someone else inside of him before tonight. 

 

Lorca makes a sound that might be a sigh. “You think I care?” He asks, and his voice abruptly softens. 

 

Jim doesn’t know what to say to that, just he doesn’t know what to do with the way Lorca rests his chin on Jim’s shoulder or the almost-kiss that is pressed to the corner of his jaw. 

 

“I’m disappointed.” Lorca says, and Jim pretends that those words don’t hit him like a body-blow, because they’ve never come before anything but anger and rejection. “I expect total honesty.” His voice is quiet but firm, “So if you can’t abide by that, you can leave now.” 

 

Jim lets out what is almost a laugh, the surprised, darkly amused huff of breath escaping unbidden. 

 

“Where would I go?” He asks, trying for bitter and sarcastic, and almost pulling it off. 

 

“Start telling the truth and you won’t have to find out.” Lorca says, “Understand?” 

 

“Yeah.” Jim mumbles. He leaves off the ‘sir’, and Lorca doesn’t remark on it. 

 

“Alright.” Lorca seems to have come to a decision, “You belong to me; you’re not getting away just because of a few tears, but I’ll go easy on you for a little bit.” 

 

Jim lets out a derisive snort, “I”m not gonna break.” He snaps back. 

 

“Well, not yet.” Lorca says, “I want you submissive, not back in sickbay.” 

 

“You could have both.” Jim points out, before something like _sense_ can kick in and stop him. Later, he’ll blame the endorphins from the sex, even if it’s not true. 

 

“Fuck…” Lorca mumbles into the back of Jim’s neck, “You’re something else, you know that?” 

 

“It’s been suggested to me, yeah.” Jim can’t help the cocky smirk that crosses his face along with that remark. He also can’t help that high-pitched whine that slips out when Lorca bites him again at the juncture of neck and shoulder, digging his teeth in, then sucking hard at the sensitive skin, pulling yet another dark bruise to the surface. “Ow.” He complains. His beck is gonna be one giant bruise soon, he’s sure.

 

Lorca rumbles something that might be ‘I’ll show you ow’ but there’s no heat to the words. He touches remain almost gentle as he arranges the two of them on the bed, curls himself possessively around Jim, keeping one arm thrown over his waist. If Jim didn’t know better, he’d call what they were doing _cuddling._

 

“Go to sleep.” Lorca tells him, and Jim, aching and exhausted, and so very confused by where he stands now, does just that, dimly aware of Lorca watching him once again as he drifts off. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS:  
> -This is mirrorverse, first off. It's gonna get a little fucked-up.  
> \- Jim is a prisoner, given to Lorca as a gift. The sex is...not entirely consensual. Both characters are definitely into what's going on, but there's no actual communication between them about it, and it's strongly implied that Lorca doesn't really care about what Jim wants either way.  
> \- Jim does bleed during sex, but it's from an existing split lip, not from anything Lorca does to him.  
> \- There is some murder, but only of original characters who we don't like anyway. 
> 
> The world's biggest thank-you to [Aisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari/) for her ceaseless encouragement and support through the entire time I wrote this (and incredible patience when it took me several months). 
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://demerite.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Reflection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18098360) by [aishahiwatari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari)




End file.
